


Snow and Goosedown

by AconitumNapellus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Frostbite, Gen, Hurt Illya, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Memories, Nostalgia, THRUSH, Ukraine - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 01:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8081749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AconitumNapellus/pseuds/AconitumNapellus
Summary: Injured and exhausted, Illya collapses in the snow, and his mind starts to travel back to scenes of his childhood.This is essentially gen but in my mind Napoleon and Illya will always be a couple. Apologies for historial inaccuracies.





	

How long can a man lie in snow and survive? There are so many variables, but Illya can hardly cogitate any of them, the state he’s in. If he built a shelter he would last longer, but if he had the strength for that he would still be walking. The temperature must affect things. If only he had damn boots instead of thin shoes. If only he weren’t exhausted, injured. If only he hadn’t lost all that blood. He knows his mind is slowly giving in, but it doesn’t feel like a terrible thing. It’s a peaceful thing, slow and calm, and even the pain grows less the longer he lies still and cold.

The snow is getting thicker as morning comes, as sun presses through the clouds. Flake after flake, falling soft and slow. It is so cold out here, but so still it is almost unreal, the snow swirling down in lazy movements from a blank, white sky. The weather is so indifferent that it hurts, and he lies under it like a man sunbathing under clouds, his mind drifting with each flake.

He thinks of goose feathers, of almost spineless down. The air had been full of it, puffing up in the warm breeze. And his grandmother’s fingers moved, swift and pitiless. Pluck, pluck, pluck. Dropping each fingerful of down into the wicker basket, while the goose stood indignant and terrified between her knees, its wings pinioned by her strong thighs.

_ But, baba, don’t you kill the goose first? _ he asked, plaintive, unable to bear the pain the bird must feel, which he could feel almost as if his own chest were being plucked. He could see its orange beak open and close, the panic in eyes as blue as his own.

_ Pah. I kill the goose, I have no more goose _ , she said, her shrug large enough to encompass the world.  _ This way I have my goose, and I have my down, and you have your feather quilt, Illyusha, and you’re warm in bed. _

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be warm if he had to watch the flock of geese after their merciless plucking, their breasts red and raw and beaded with blood. But when it came time to snuggle down under that thick down quilt, his grandmother’s hands tucking him in, her lined mouth coming down to kiss him on the brow, he was glad of the quilt. She was right. When the world outside was under its own white quilt, its own spread of down, he was grateful for what the geese had given up.

And he learnt later, much later, that it was better to go through pain and survive than have an easy death. There were times when he had clung onto life with his fingernails, despite agony that had him screaming, and he had always been glad at the next day’s dawn.

He thinks of the feathers floating in the warm currents of the air, rising up, drifting down. Little bits of feather in his hair, hair bleached almost white by the summer sun. Little bits of feather catching the sunlight and glowing as if each were its own halo. The scent of grass baked by the sun, the scent of dust, and the movement of his grandmother’s hands, pluck, pluck, pluck. The honking of the geese had been such a real sound.

But these goose feathers are cold as they fall. When they touch his skin, they melt. Each one leaches away a little of his own heat. He stares at every feather falling and starts to feel as if he were falling, plummeting up into the atmosphere, towards that thick cushion of cloud.

Against the cloud the flakes are dark, like ash. His grandfather would burn garden rubbish and the air would fill with smoke. He could hear them, both of them, their long, drawn out conversations in Ukrainian about such irrelevant things, things deep at the heart of life. The price of flour and the creeping influx of combustion engines, and how grandmother felt the first time she ever saw a steam engine shrieking through the land, at the age of nine; how she had been so scared she had pushed both hands into her mouth and bitten them hard. How the world was changed.

To Illya, nothing ever changed. Every summer he came here and stayed with baba and didus, and the world seemed so large and yet so small, the sun so warm, the holiday so long, and yet fleeting by so fast. Every summer he saw baba’s arms; floured to the elbows sometimes, she kneaded the bread dough so vigorously. He saw the first time his grandfather got behind the wheel of one of those dreadful horseless cars and guffawed at what the world had come to. He saw the silver flash of baba’s needle as she sewed her goosedown quilts. He stood in the long summer evening watching the garden rubbish burn, saying,  _ Please put more on, didus, please _ , and just to please him his grandfather would pile on more bean pods or more handfuls of dry grass, and Illya would scrabble around for sticks to throw on top. And he would lie on the grass with one hand behind his head, looking up, watching the specks of ash drift up to meet the clouds, a dirty grey against the purity of the sky.

There’s nothing more pure than snow, so it’s strange how snowflakes look so much like ash against white sky, like feathers against dark earth. His memories are so warm, it’s hard to believe in the cold. On his back, he is, just as he used to lie in the snow in winter, making shapes with his arms and legs. He would give a lot to be able to play. Running, screaming, throwing snowballs at the side of the house, running so hard that his blood was hot despite the winter weather.

_Why, mama, why can’t I visit baba always? Why can’t I go back there again?_

_Shush, Illyusha, you know you have school, you know you can’t live out there. There’s nothing there._

_But there are geese and wheat fields and bonfires and trees and – and –_

_No, Illyusha. No. Hush now. There’s school tomorrow, and where will you be without school?_

The war had torn into it all, had put a seal on the wheat fields and the hot summers and the winters of snow. It was like a line drawn on the ground in black tar. From that point on, he had left dark footprints behind him. Although he had gone back there after the war, it was never the same. Baba and didus were too old, diminished somehow. They seemed so sad.

Memory is such a strange thing, the way it wavers and moves from one thing to the next. Goose feathers, ashes, snow. The memory of snow should be the strongest now, with all these associations. Lying here in winter gear, watching the flakes slowly drifting down from the sky. He tries to follow one flake, and his eyes always slip to another. He can’t feel his fingers or his toes, but he can still feel his leg. Oh yes, he can feel that very well; that sharp, vital pain. If he could look down from above he’s sure he would make a stunning sight, the blue of his cold weather gear, and the shocking red of blood seeping into the white snow. He has made a trail, breadcrumbs to be followed, drop after drop of bright blood. That couldn’t be mistaken. He couldn’t have avoided it if he had tried. It will lead someone to him, or something, now day has come. But it might be too late.

_ Come in, Illya _ , his grandmother called.  _ Illyusha, it’s late. What would your mother say if she knew I let you stay up until all hours? _

_Oh, but I don’t want to go to bed..._

Poking the fire with a long stick as the dusk fell, watching sparks shower up into the air, bright amber and orange streaks against the growing dark. They were his own fireworks. The heat was such a powerful thing, pressing into his cheeks and hands. He stood closer than he should, let his face burn while his back shivered. The rising ash was even darker now, and on the other side of the fire grandfather smoked his pipe and his own private twirl of smoke rose, the scent of tobacco mingling with the wood smoke into a precious blend. To this day the sight of Waverly’s hand curled around his pipe bowl makes him think of didus.

Will it be too late? He hardly knows how long he has been lying here now on this beautiful feather bed of snow. The back of his head is cold and his face is cold and his nose is cold almost beyond bearing despite the thick muffler over his mouth and nose.

The snow is so beautiful. Every flake that falls follows its own path, drifting, drifting, covering him up as if they are sewing their own patchwork quilt, covering him up. He is getting warmer, warmer. He is almost too hot, and he reaches up an arm to fumble at the zip of his coat. The gloves muddle him, and he tries to pull one off.

_No, no, Illyusha, you must always dress warmly. The cold is vicious. Can I send you home without your fingers? What would your mama say? Don’t you need those fingers for your music?_

‘No, Illya, no. No, put that glove back on now. I don’t want your fingers dropping off. All good agents have ten fingers and ten toes.’

He tries to lift his hand and look at his fingers, but he can’t tell how many he has. ‘Ten – ?’

‘Just a little humour to warm you up, Illya.’

He stares at his gloved hand, and remembers baba, remembers her voice, old and knowing. ‘Humour is the gadfly on the corpse of tragedy.’

Has he said that aloud, or had his grandmother said it? She said so many things, things which seemed wise and confusing to a boy of six. The air is full of down. She is trying to push his glove back onto his hand, and Illya shakes his aching head.

‘No, poor geese. Poor geese. We don’t need another quilt.’

‘All right, tovarisch, all right. I’m getting you out of here.’

Tovarisch? Why would baba call him that? That wasn’t something for family, for friends. The air is full of flakes of ash, ash raining down on him, strangely cold, and someone is trying to move him, their hands hard and annoying through his clothes, pressing into his bones.

‘No, I just want to lie. Just let me sleep here...’

Sleeping in the snow is bad, he knows, but it is so soft and he doesn’t want to move.

‘No, no, no. You’ve had enough sleep. Come on, now. Come on.’

Oh, he doesn’t want to move, but somehow he is moving all the same. His leg hurts, and he cries out. Oh, the pain of it. Someone is doing something to it, putting something tight around it, and oh, it hurts so much. And he is moving then. It must be a dream. He is moving along on the snow, across the snow, watching the flakes falling above him. He takes in a deep breath and watches it come out of his mouth in a crystal cloud. How is he moving?

‘How am I moving?’ he asks aloud.

‘I’ve got you on a sled, Illya. I’m getting you to safety. Just lie still there, but  _ don’t go to sleep _ .’

‘I don’t know how...’

‘Come on now.’ The man stops for a moment and bends down over him. He sees brown eyes in a muffled face. A gloved hand pats his cheek. ‘Come on, sing. What can you sing? Do you know the Song of the Volga Boatmen?’

He remembers his baba singing, sitting by his bed, going through a litany of traditional songs. Her whispered,  _ Shush, little Illyusha. I will sing for you. Sing you to sleep. Listen to the pretty music. _

And he opens his mouth to sing one of her songs, and then realises he doesn’t remember the words. He feels such sorrow.

_Close your eyes, Illyushenka. Let me sing to you._

‘Illya, no, don’t go to sleep.  _ Illya! _ ’

The slap is harsh across his cheek and sets his throbbing head to ringing again. Baba never hits him. Is this his grandfather, then? He stares upwards, into those brown eyes. Didus’s eyes were blue.

‘Napoleon?’

‘Ah, hello, my little popsicle. Illya, I need you to stay awake.’

He stares at the face above him, at the brown eyes bordered by brown and green wraps. Napoleon’s eyes look lined, framed like this. Lined by worry? Smiles? Worry, right now, he supposes, but Napoleon is strongest in his memory as a smiling face. Even when he is worried, he smiles, is probably smiling now, beneath the wraps.

‘Napoleon, what – ?’

‘Shush now. I’m trying to get you somewhere warm.’

And Napoleon straightens up, his face disappears, and Illya looks up vaguely towards the white sky and the ash specks of snow and can see the bulk of Napoleon’s legs and back behind his head as he puts straining effort into pulling the sledge.

‘Illya?’ he calls out, his voice huffing with the effort of pulling.

‘I’m here.’

‘Stay with me, Illya. Come on, now. Sing to me.’

He can’t think of any songs. There is a strange heat at the heart of him, a burning all through. His eyes want to drift closed. He thinks of the heat of grandfather’s fire, and then of the stove inside where grandmother baked her bread.

_Put another stick on, Illya. Hurry now. Get me some sticks from the pile outside._

The heavy iron door that he wasn’t allowed to touch. Baba opened it with a cloth protecting her hand and the heat roared out as from a dragon’s mouth, and she let him stand at a safe distance and toss the sticks in, one after another, food for the beast. That heat is so real, and he smiles at it.

‘Illya!’

_Stand back from the fire, Illyusha, while I stir it up. It needs to be hot enough for my bread._

_How do you tell how hot, baba? Why don’t you have a thermometer, baba? Mama says science is rebuilding the world._

And she would open the oven door and put her hand in and start to count.

_When it’s hot enough I can’t keep my hand in for longer than fifteen. Do you see, Illya? Do you feel the heat? My hand is better than a thermometer. I never lose it. It doesn’t break._

Oh, but hands do break. He knows that now. So many little bones, and all it takes is a foot, the weight of a man crushing down, a kick, the blow from the butt of a gun or a piece of wood. They break so easily, like kindling for the fire.

‘Illya, wake up. Illya, don’t go to sleep. Come on, Illya. Sing with me.’

Napoleon’s voice rises in song. Illya remembers walking across the yard in bare feet, the ground soft as silk beneath his soles, the dust making his skin grey. Reaching in beneath a hen that had cold eyes and a vicious beak.

_No, Illya, not too close to her head. She’ll peck you. You’re stealing her babies._

The heat of the chicken made him think of baba putting her hand in the oven. The eggs blood-warm, warmer in his hands, more precious than jewels. So smooth and warm in his hands, one in each.

_No, Illya, don’t carry more than two at a time. If you break them, that’s a waste. What will didus say if you break his breakfast eggs?_

Didus sitting at the table, a cloth tucked into his collar, eating egg after egg. The yolk trickling into his beard, vibrant and yellow, and the grey-white of his beard stained yellow with tobacco too. His grandfather always had that tobacco scent. It was a miasma around him. He would wipe off the yolk with his cloth but he couldn’t wipe off the tobacco that made his beard yellow. And he would hug Illya tight, so tight, wrapped up in his coat, and the wool was scratchy on Illya’s face, his beard was scratchy when he bent to kiss his grandson, the stale tobacco scent was itchy in Illya’s throat. But oh he loved those hugs and missed those hugs.

‘Come on, Illya. You must know this one, huh? Ten green bottles? Come on.’

‘Ten green bottles,’ Illya starts to sing, staring up at the ash feather snow that keeps falling on his face, ‘hanging on the wall, ten green – ’

‘That’s it! Loud and clear. – hanging on the wall. And if one green bottle, should accidentally – Hey, Illya, you still with me?’

‘Nine green bottles,’ Illya tries to sing manfully, wondering on the oddness of the situation.

‘We’re on seven now, but never mind. Come on, Illya. What’s in those bottles, hey? Vodka? Slivovitz? Huh?’

‘Brandy,’ Illya says dreamily. ‘Ten bottles of brandy hanging on the wall.’

‘Maybe there’ll be brandy there,’ Napoleon cheers him, ‘when we get back. Come on, sing up. Seven green bottles hanging on the wall...’

His grandmother had a brown bottle that she used as a vase. Illya used to go into the fields and walk through wheat higher than his head, the hot scent of earth and straw rising around him. He would bring her flowers clenched in his little hands. He remembers her getting out her brown glass bottle and filling it with water, arranging the flowers he had picked with as much care as she would take with a bouquet from a florist’s.

_What more do I need, Illyushenka, than flowers and flour from the field, and your shining face like the sun? Do you pick your mama flowers in the city?_

_ I try, baba.  _ Thinking of weeds and flowers in the parks. He tried. There were not many flowers in apartment blocks, but his mother grew plants in pots and they blossomed when they could.

‘All right, Illya. Up and at ’em. Time to get up now.’

Rising from the sledge as if by a magic force, and then realising the magic force is Napoleon’s arms beneath him. And the ash snow whirls from his vision, the endless white sky becomes suddenly something much closer to him, planks of wood with whorls and knots moving above him. And Napoleon sets him down again and he recognises that feeling beneath him of a feather quilt.

‘Oh, baba, baba,’ he sighs.

Napoleon’s hands start to unwrap him like a Christmas gift. Napoleon’s eyes are looking down at him, worried and brown. His mouth is still hidden behind his wraps and Illya tries to reach up but finds that he can’t move his arm.

‘’Poleon, I can’t see your face,’ he says.

For a moment Napoleon looks terribly worried, but then a smile lights his eyes and he says, ‘Oh,’ and reaches to pull the wraps from his face. And there is Napoleon’s smile, just as worried as his eyes, but a smile at least. His face is red from the cold. Illya supposes his own is white.

‘All right, now, Illya. Let me get all these layers off you and you might start to feel the heat,’ Napoleon says.

Illya looks around. He is in front of an open fire, lying on the floor, on the soft intervening layer of a quilt. The ceiling is all planks of wood, and he can see where series of planks were sawn from the same log by the repeating but slightly varying patterns in them. Napoleon is diligently unzipping his coat, pulling off his gloves and touching his fingers, peeling the thick over-trousers from his legs and pulling off his shoes. Napoleon is stripping him naked, bit by bit. Illya can see the heat there but it’s as if there’s a glass pane in between him and the fire. He tries to lift a hand again, but he feels enormously tired.

‘No, no, don’t try to do anything,’ Napoleon tells him. ‘You let me do the work.’

‘Cold,’ he says incoherently.

‘I know, but I don’t want you too close to the fire. We need to do this slowly.’

_ Slowly _ , he thinks. He must be defrosted slowly, like a joint of meat. His hands are just pieces of meat.

‘Where are we?’ he asks.

‘Ski lodge about five miles out of Sölden. My base of operations for the search. You know, it’s really very picturesque.’

Illya just stares at the ceiling and says, ‘I’ve seen enough snow. Enough mountain peaks.’ Then he feels muddled, and asks, ‘What search?’

‘The search for  _ you _ , idiot. You and the microfilm. You do have the microfilm, don’t you, because Mr Waverly will be very annoyed at all the expense if you don’t? You’ve ruined a very good pair of ski pants, on top of everything else.’

Illya lifts his head a little and tries to squint at the pile of clothing. ‘Oh, these? I stole these from Thrush.’

Napoleon grins, and his grin seems warmer than the fire, which still isn’t reaching Illya’s skin. ‘Well, in that case, we’re up one good jacket and a pair of gloves. Well done. I bet you wish you’d stolen proper boots too. And the microfilm?’

‘Inner pocket, jacket.’

Napoleon searches, and comes up trumps. He kisses the little canister and slips it into his own pocket.

The heat still isn’t reaching him. He is so cold, and now his hands are starting to hurt and his feet are starting to hurt terribly as they come back to life. He gasps, open mouthed. Napoleon makes a businesslike movement, pulls down Illya’s underpants and touches him there, says brusquely, ‘You’ll be pleased to know  _ that’s _ not frostbitten,’ before covering him up again. And Illya  _ is _ pleased to hear that. He hadn’t even thought of it until now, but he’s pleased.

Napoleon touches a hand to his forehead and walks away, and Illya smells gas, hears a kettle humming. And then Napoleon is back by him, trying to get him to raise his knees, and oh how his thigh hurts as he does that.

‘Can you keep your knees up, Illya?’

And he packs a pillow beneath them to stop them falling back down, eases his feet into a bowl of warm water, and the pain redoubles.

‘Open your mouth.’

Obediently, he does, and Napoleon puts the handle of a wooden spoon between his teeth. Illya bites down as his feet seem to split apart with the pain.

_Oh, Illya, Illyushenka, quickly. Put it in water! Put it in water!_

And his grandmother plunged his arm elbow deep into the water bucket as the heat seared through the palm of his hand. He closed his eyes, tears stinging out through the lids and trickling down his cheeks.

_Baba, I just wanted to put some wood on the fire. I’m sorry, baba…_

Didus took his hand out of the bucket periodically to look at his palm and fingers, at the great blisters bubbling up on the skin. Baba ran for more cold water from the pump. Didus picked up the fire cloth and shook it at him and Illya cried and baba told him,  _ Don’t be silly, Illyusha, darling. We’re not cross with you. But you must always use the fire cloth. The door is hot. _

Oh how his hands hurt, and Napoleon is holding them, saying, ‘I know they hurt. I know. It’s good. It means they’re still alive. Come on now. This hand in this basin. And the left in the other. There. Keep them in the water, now. I wish this place had a bathtub...’

Illya grits his teeth together against the spoon and a sound of agony grinds out of his mouth. It’s so strong he feels sick. And then Napoleon strokes his jaw, says, ‘Let go now,’ and takes the spoon. He holds a cup to his lips and pushes two white pills into his mouth, tips the cup and says, ‘Swallow, now. That’s it.’

‘Codeine?’ Illya asks after he swallows, and Napoleon nods.

‘It might take the edge off it. I’m going to look at that thigh. Want the spoon back?’

He shakes his head. The wooden taste is unpleasant in his mouth, woolly on his tongue. He remembers the wooden spoons that didus used to carve, the spoon he used every morning, the taste of it in his mouth. Napoleon shows him the tooth marks in the handle, and he tries to smile.

‘Did the bullet go straight through?’

Illya’s head is singing with pain. His ears are screaming. He can’t answer Napoleon and he feels Napoleon’s fingers start to probe the thigh wound. He wants to scream at him to stop. He wants to clench his fists but he can’t even move his fingers. He’s not sure now which is worse, the pain in his hands and feet or the pain in his thigh. But perhaps the bullet did go straight through, because Napoleon stops poking and Illya smells the sharpness of antiseptic and feels the sting of it on both sides of his thigh, entry and exit wounds he supposes. Then Napoleon swills a little of the same stuff into the water for his hands and feet, and the whole air is full of the scent.

The bandage his partner wraps tightly around his thigh is a blessed relief. He feels as if that part of him, at least, isn’t falling apart.

His eyes drift over the patterns in the wooden ceiling. He thinks of his grandfather’s veined hands, his knobbly knuckles, drawing a plane over and over a plank of wood. The shavings fell like a girl’s ringlets on the ground. Illya liked to pick them up and poke his fingers down the centre, to stretch them out flat again, to smell the sweet woody scent. Once he covered his head in the curls and said,  _ Look, didus, I’m a girl! _ and didus’s laugh had been rich and strong, coming from his belly and then filling all the air. He had never wanted to be a girl, but he had always coveted the silk of long hair.

_No, mama, don’t cut it so short, please. I don’t like it short._

_You want people to think you’re a girl, Illya? You’re so small, so delicate. No, you must have a boy’s hair._

‘Hey, partner, are you still with me? Illya? Want to report any more injuries? I can see the bruising and I’ve dressed the bullet wound and I’m warming your hands and feet. Are there any broken ribs under those bruises?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Illya murmurs. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘All right. Anything else? Head injury, Illya? Do you have a head injury?’ His voice is very clear and loud. Napoleon can be distracted by pretty women and good food and sex, but when it’s necessary his focus is like a laser.

‘Oh, yes, my head,’ Illya remembers, feeling the dull ache at the base of his skull. ‘They cracked me pretty well. Back of my head.’

‘Got a bit of concussion, huh?’

‘Maybe.’

Napoleon lifts Illya’s head a little, cradling it with his palm. He probes at the place where he was hit, and Illya winces as he touches the bruise. He can feel how his hair is matted with blood, but the wound has long since stopped bleeding.

‘All right, tovarisch. Sorry.’

Napoleon lets his head back down, then his fingers gently hold each eye wide open in turn. Napoleon’s head comes very close to his, so he can scent his breath and feel the warmth of it. His eyes are so brown, and Illya watches the tiny reflections in his pupils.

‘Any vomiting? You lost consciousness?’

‘Lost consciousness. No vomiting, I think. Oh, I’m so cold...’

‘Yeah, well, I’m working on that, Illya. I need to warm the water in those bowls again.’

And Napoleon is scooping some of the water out of each bowl into a basin. He throws the water out of the window and Illya sees it arcing, a frozen moment, each droplet blazing in the sun. Then carefully, ever so carefully, Napoleon pours more warm water into the bowls, mixing it with his hand, and Illya grits his teeth at the stabbing, pulsing pain.

‘You sure you don’t want that spoon?’

‘I w-want to be warm.’

The shivers are starting now. He was too cold to shiver before. But now he has reached that threshold and he can feel the tremors starting through his entire body. His hand jerks uncontrollably and upsets the basin of water it is in, and Napoleon tuts and sets about clearing up the spill and replacing the water.

‘You need at least half an hour in this,’ he tells Illya sternly. ‘And we’re going to keep on doing it until I’m sure your hands and feet are safe. Remember what I said, huh? All good agents need ten fingers and ten toes. Can you count to ten now?’

If Illya were in a better position he would throw something at Napoleon, but he’s utterly trapped. And then Napoleon moves away from him, starts to do something clattering in the kitchen, and a good, good scent fills the air.

‘Here you are, tovarisch,’ Napoleon says, coming back to crouch at his side. ‘Nice tomato soup. That’ll warm you up.’

Oh, and it does. Napoleon puts cushions beneath his head and shoulders and holds the cup to his lips and the soup goes down his throat warmly, like a promise that everything will be all right. He remembers baba’s rich soups in the wintertime, dipping bread in and swallowing it down. This soup is from a tin, but every bit as welcome. It makes a path, draws a map down the length of his gullet and into his stomach, and it sits there, a warm lake radiating heat.

‘Better?’ Napoleon asks.

He’s still shivering and his hands and feet and thigh still hurt like hell, but he smiles and says, ‘Much. Warmer now. I start to believe that warmth is real.’

Napoleon draws one of his hands from the water and regards it like a fish. His hand is purple-red, and looks grotesque.

‘Hmm. Can you move your fingers?’

Illya wiggles them stiffly. They make him think of fat worms. The pain is so strong that he moans, and suddenly his stomach revolts and the hot tomato soup is coming out of his mouth. Napoleon fusses over him, cleans him up, covering his chill body with a new blanket. Then he opens the medical kit and takes out a little ampoule and draws morphine into a syringe.

‘Quick sting,’ Napoleon mutters, and he presses the dose into Illya’s thigh. He rubs the site of the injection, and smiles. ‘That’s going to start feeling better soon. I think we should leave your hands and feet in the water for a little longer. I can get you more soup. You need the heat.’

He’s already starting to feel that blessed, blind ease, and he smiles, willing to do anything. So Napoleon brings him more soup, and he sips at it and lets it track down his throat. He seems to be drinking forever, and it is so warm and so good.

He lay in his bed under the sloping ceiling, and baba stroked his forehead and tucked his thick quilt more tightly around him. He drank soup from a wooden spoon and felt so bad and so small and so far away from home.

_There, Illyusha. All the good things. Let the fever burn itself out. You’ll feel better in the morning._

_But, mama, I want mama..._

_ Hush, baby, baba’s here.  _ Her papery hands stroked over his forehead and brushed his hair away and she spooned in more soup and said,  _ Mama loves you but baba will look after you. It’s just a little fever. You’ll be better in the morning, and we can look for eggs and you can sit in the sun. The sun will make you better. _

A long night, that one, sleeping and waking and baba brushing a damp cloth over his forehead. Just a fever, nothing worse. But oh, he had wanted his mama to be there, to rest his head against her cushioning breast, to smell her hair, to feel her solid fingers. Why did skin go papery when a person was old? He could see all the veins under baba’s skin. Her hands were like parchment. Mama’s hands were so solid and real. She would never change, never grow old.

Were those baba’s hands? Mama’s hands? No. A man’s hands, the scent of male sweat, Napoleon’s eyes looking down at him, Napoleon drawing his hands from the water and dabbing them dry with a towel. He watches through narrowed eyes as Napoleon very gently strokes antiseptic into the skin and then bandages his hands with loving care, each finger separate from the next. And then his feet, one toe after the next in crisp white muslin gauze, and Napoleon saying, ‘This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed at home.’ He gets more gauze, says, ‘This little piggy had roast beef, and this little piggy had none. And this little piggy went – ’ That is the hardest toe to wrap, an intricate little parcel, a perfect present. ‘Wee, wee, wee,’ Napoleon mutters, concentrating. ‘All the way home...’

And he spiders his fingers ever so lightly up Illya’s body until he reaches his chin. He stops short of tickling, and smiles. His smile is so warm that Illya glows.

‘That’s five little piggies in bed. Ready for the other five?’

‘If you leave off the ridiculous rhymes,’ Illya says drowsily.

Baba tapping her big finger gently on his palm, reciting all the while.  _ Tsora kavrana ditjem kashka navarilla...  _ Folding his fingers in like the corners of a pastry, tickling up his arm and catching him under the chin. And he laughed, how he laughed, and she laughed too, squeezing out the words,  _ Tseep, tseep, tseep, tseep, tseep... _ tickling him all the while.

‘Hey, buddy, are you with me?’

And he lifts his heavy eyelids to look at Napoleon, who is smiling at him. He remembers baba’s face, her eyes a mass of fine lines radiating from the corners, tears running down her face, wincing comically as he screamed with laughter. It’s all so long ago.

‘That’s ten toes done. I’ll unwrap them later to check how they’re doing.’

‘Can I sleep now, Napoleon?’ he asks drowsily. ‘I’d really like to sleep.’

And Napoleon grimaces and takes Illya’s temperature and looks closely at Illya’s eyes and says, ‘In a little while, tovarisch, and I’ll have to wake you every few hours,’ and Illya knows he isn’t happy about the concussion or the hypothermia. A couple of hours seems good, though. A couple of hours is just fine.

‘Why don’t you tell me a story, Illya?’ Napoleon asks, and Illya can tell he isn’t quite happy to let him slip away yet.

He thinks of all the stories baba would tell him, and the frightful ones that didus would tell, sitting him on his knee with his arms around Illya’s slim waist while the fire burned and snow fell outside.

‘Do you know about Baba Yaga?’ he asks, and Napoleon laughs.

‘Well, I do. I was thinking you could tell me a tale of little Thrush birds in the white, white snow.’

‘Ah, little Thrush birds...’

Illya feels so drowsy. He thinks of little birds out in the yard, pecking at the crumbs that baba throws out there, fluttering down before the chickens can greedily take the lot. Cold outside, lots of snow, and a trampled patch in the middle of the yard where all the feet go.

‘Little Thrush birds,’ Napoleon prompts him. ‘Talk to me, Illya. What happened with the little Thrush birds?’

‘Ah…’ Illya says, long and slow. His mind seems sluggish, and he tries to remember. ‘There were seven little Thrush birds with blue feathers,’ he begins, ‘and they were walking patterns in the snow. And then there was a little man with yellow hair – ’

‘With golden hair,’ Napoleon interrupts softly. ‘In fairy tales they always have golden hair, Illya.’

‘A little man with golden hair, then,’ Illya says, his gaze drifting over the ceiling, looking at a series of knots that look like eyes.

‘And eyes as blue as the sky,’ Napoleon adds.

Illya smiles. ‘If you will. If you want to make the story very long. A little man with golden hair, and eyes as blue as the sky. A very sneaky man...’

His eyes are so warm, his lids are so heavy. The fire is finally penetrating his skin, sinking in like warm honey, deep towards his bones.

‘Hey, Illya.’ Someone is shaking him gently. ‘Illya, I want to hear the rest of the story.’

‘Oh,’ he murmurs, blinking his eyes open again. ‘A little golden man with blue eyes in the snow. He shoots special darts at the Thrush birds, one, two, three, four, and they fall in the snow. Then five, six, seven jump on him. They’re very nasty birds. They peck him very hard, knock him down...’

‘Here, and here, and here?’ Napoleon asks, touching his hand with a feather’s lightness over the places on Illya’s torso where bruises lie.

‘Here, and here, and here,’ Illya echoes, then moves his head uncomfortably. ‘And there, on the back of his head, and everything goes black. So they drag him through the snow and put him in a cage.’

‘Oh, but the golden man can’t be held by a mere cage, can he?’ Napoleon smiles, and Illya smiles too.

‘No, no cage can hold him. He sleeps in the cage for a long time, but then he wakes up. He has some magic in his buttons and in his shoes, and he makes the cage door go boom, and he slips out in the dark of night and searches for the treasure.’

‘And finds the treasure,’ Napoleon says, patting the pocket where he put the microfilm.

‘He finds the treasure,’ Illya says drowsily, ‘but he doesn’t feel so good. But he finds another little Thrush bird on guard at the door, so he – well – ’ He blinks, then asks, ‘Napoleon, can one garotte an enemy in a fairy tale?’

Napoleon laughs. ‘Ah, no. No, I don’t think one can.’

‘Well then… Well then, he makes the Thrush bird go to sleep and steals his clothes and sneaks out into the snow. But then… No, guns aren’t right either.’

‘Well, we’ll allow that,’ Napoleon says magnanimously.

‘Oh very well. Then one big, bad Thrush bird shoots at the golden man and gets him through the thigh. And he’s feeling pretty bad by now because his ribs are sore and his head is sore, and now he’s losing blood too. Drip, drip, drip, each drip red on the white snow. But it’s night, and he thinks they won’t be able to see the trail. So he runs, and when he can’t run any more, he walks, and he keeps on walking, and he thinks the snow will last forever, because he doesn’t really know where he is, Napoleon. He doesn’t know where he’s going, and he’s getting so cold and so tired. And he thinks  _ maybe I can lie down, just for a bit _ . So he lies down in the snow. And he lies there for such a long time. At first there are stars in the sky, and then there are clouds. And then there is snow falling, and – Oh, Napoleon, I’m tired. Can I sleep now?’

Napoleon’s hand strokes his forehead, and he says, ‘Soon, tovarisch. Soon.’

‘Well, the snow starts falling, and he’s so very tired and he wants to sleep, and he gets colder and colder. And then he looks up and he sees – ’

‘A handsome prince,’ Napoleon smiles.

‘Another man,’ Illya says firmly. ‘A very ordinary man with brown eyes and brown hair. And he tows him back to the castle on a sledge, and here he is now, and please let me go to sleep, Napoleon. I’m so tired and so sore.’

Napoleon touches the back of his hand to Illya’s forehead and then looks in his eyes again. And then he nods.

‘All right, partner mine,’ he says, and he slips his arms under Illya and lifts him with a grunt, and asks, ‘Have you ever thought of losing weight, Illya? Huh? Have you ever thought of that?’

But Illya leans his head on Napoleon’s arm and folds his bandaged paws over his chest and lets his bandaged feet dangle, and Napoleon carries him away from the wonderful fire, all the way into another room, where the curtains are closed, where a double bed is made up with cheery linens and the lamp is already on.

‘Here you go,’ he says, laying Illya down and tucking the quilts over him. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t drop off,’ he says.

Illya struggles to stay awake, and after five minutes Napoleon comes back and slips a rubber hot water bottle into the bed next to him.

‘Just to keep you warm enough,’ he says. ‘ _ Don’t _ put your hands or feet on it. You hear me? It’s important, Illya.’

And Illya nods sleepily. ‘Not my hands or feet. I know.’

‘Good. It’s just for your body, to raise your core temperature.’ Then he settles down on top of the covers on the other side of the bed, and picks up a book. ‘Go on, you sleep now, Illya,’ he says. ‘I’ll be watching over you. I’m the good morphine fairy and I’m here to make sure you have sweet dreams.’

‘Sweet dreams,’ Illya murmurs. There is nothing sweeter than morphine. ‘My Morpheus, Napoleon? Is that who you are?’

‘That’s who I am,’ Napoleon says very softly. ‘Close your eyes, Illya. Sleep tight.’

He is lying in his bed under the sloping ceiling, and snow is drifting down outside, and he hears the cackle of seven geese, seven geese in the snow with bloody breasts. And baba’s hand stroking his head and the smell of didus’ pipe tobacco and a feeling of fever so strong it makes his hands and feet hurt. He is running on feet that hurt so much and trying to use painful, bandaged hands to open a door that will not open, because seven geese want to kill him and kill baba and didus and mama and papa, seven geese in metal helmets, seven geese shouting German words with German guns with bayonets on, their breasts all bloody and great boots on their feet. And then –

‘Illya. Illya. It’s time to wake up for a bit.’

A hand on his shoulder, shaking him, and he wakes into pain and broad daylight and Napoleon looking down at him.

‘Oh,’ he says.

‘Are you all right?’ Napoleon’s eyes are full of concern. ‘You were babbling in Russian about – well, I think Germans and geese.’

‘Oh,’ he says again.

He recalls so vividly the streets full of German soldiers, all grey, with guns. Recalls the shouting and barked orders, recalls his mother’s terror when they came for the Jewish family in the apartment next door, the family he never saw again. Kiev burning, Kiev half destroyed by mines set by their own side. Everything crumbling.

‘My feet hurt, and my hands hurt,’ he says.

‘Well, frostbite will do that. Some people reckon it’s one of the most intense pains you can experience,’ Napoleon says baldly. ‘Now, open up,’ he says, holding out the thermometer.

Illya lets him put the thin glass stick in his mouth, and while the mercury is rising Napoleon takes his pulse. Satisfied with both, he smiles.

‘Now. Tell me your name,’ Napoleon says in an uncompromising tone.

‘I am Illya  Nikolayevich Kuryakin, an agent for the U.N.C.L.E.. You are Napoleon Solo. I’m in a ski lodge five – five? – miles from Sölden.’

‘And the date?’

‘Oh...’

‘The date, Illya.’ Napoleon’s voice is hard.

His head swims. He can remember so many dates. 3 rd January 1949, when baba died. 5 th June the same year, when didus followed her, coughing his lungs out through his mouth. 24 th September, 1941, when Kiev was blown to pieces by the retreating Red Army. 9 th May, 1945. Victory Day.

‘Illya, what day is it?’ Napoleon asks. The question seems so unfair.

‘Tuesday,’ he says. He has a one in seven chance.

‘Friday. You don’t know the date?’

Illya shrugs. ‘I’m sure it’s right there. I just can’t find it right now. I know it’s – 1966, isn’t it?’

Napoleon smiles and pats him on the cheek. ‘Top marks, Agent Kuryakin. Well done. Can you give me a month?’

‘Uh – February?’

Napoleon smiles, but his smile is worried. ‘Not quite.’

He finds himself impatient then. Such a stupid little thing, the current date, like trying to remember what one had for lunch three days ago. And then he realises he can’t remember that, either.

‘Well can’t you just tell me?’

Napoleon puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘I look forward to you remembering on your own, IK.’

Illya grumbles at that, and he asks peevishly, ‘Can’t we just go home? This place is too – too twee.’

‘This place is warm and safe,’ Napoleon says patiently. ‘I’ve had the local police put about a report of the body of a blond mountaineer being found, so that should keep the Thrushies off our tracks, and the recent snowfall should do that even more literally. I’m keeping you here until you can travel. You can’t walk on those feet and I can’t sled you down the mountain. Thrush would be all over us.’

‘Helicopter?’ Illya asks hopefully.

‘No go. There is no local U.N.C.L.E. ’copter and we can’t risk anything else. Thrushes are ubiquitous birds.’

‘Aren’t they just?’ Illya murmurs.

His hands and feet feel as though someone is sticking an ice axe through them, and he whimpers a little.

‘Can’t I have more morphine? Can’t I sleep a little more?’

Napoleon smiles. ‘I can do that,’ he says, ‘but I’ll be waking you again to check your vitals, and later to immerse your hands and feet again. All right?’

‘All right,’ Illya agrees, as if he has any choice. He moves his eyes to follow Napoleon’s movements as he fills another syringe, gives him another beautiful dose of morphine. And then he sleeps and dreams twisting dreams, and wakes again naturally to see Napoleon sitting beside him on the bed, his nose buried deep in a book.

‘What’re you reading?’ he asks sleepily.

Napoleon looks up, and there’s something about his attitude that makes Illya feel he should be wearing a silk dressing gown, wearing reading glasses and toting a long cigarette holder. Of course, Napoleon doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t use reading glasses, and he’s wearing a comfortable wool sweater and slacks, but he still has that air of effortless sophistication.

Napoleon turns the cover of the book towards Illya.

‘Les Miserables? Again?’

‘Again,’ Napoleon smiles. The copy is so battered the words are almost worn off the front.

‘In the original French, of course?’

‘ _ Naturellement, mon ami. _ ’

‘No wonder you sound so archaic whenever you use the language in the field,’ Illya grumbles, but he loves that Napoleon packs his favourite book in his luggage and reads it again and again. ‘You need to read Dostoevsky,’ he says, and Napoleon snorts.

‘I’m not quite ready to slit my wrists yet, my dear.’

‘Slit your wrists…’ Feeling wells up in him, as it always does with subjects about which he is passionate. ‘Dostoevsky is about the sheer intensity of  _ living _ , Napoleon, not dying.’

Napoleon tuts at him, shaking his head. ‘Oh no, Illya. I’m not about to let you start enthusing. You’re far too weak for that. Now, let’s see about getting you dressed and bathing your hands and feet again.’

The last thing Illya wants is for Napoleon to touch his hands or feet, but he submits to Napoleon’s ministrations, and this time he is able to sit on a chair at the table with his feet dangling into a basin and his hands in a bowl in front of him, although really he feels like slumping his head onto the table and closing his eyes. But Napoleon heats up more soup and cuts bread, and feeds him mouthful after mouthful between quizzing him again for minor facts and details about the mission, the date, what happened. The frustration rises every time his mind comes up blank. But when he has finished his questioning Napoleon eats too, and it is a strangely cosy time, a strangely normal time. Napoleon almost uses the same spoon, dips it into his bowl, takes a mouthful, dips it into Illya’s bowl and proffers it towards his lips. And as Illya revolts Napoleon laughs and gallantly offers to make an entirely new bowl, after sullying Illya’s with his germs.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Napoleon,’ Illya says. After all, how often has he stolen food from Napoleon’s plate? But he doesn’t share cutlery, and so often Napoleon forgets that.

The food makes him heavy and sleepy and when his head starts to droop towards the wood of the table Napoleon re-bandages his hands and feet and allows him back to bed and he sinks again into a half sleep and half dreams.

He rouses enough to hear Napoleon’s voice.

‘Yeah, I think he’s okay, sir, but I’m a little worried about the concussion.’

‘I’m sure Mr Kuryakin has had more concussions than most men his age have had hot dinners.’

Ahh, Mr Waverly’s voice, tinny through the speaker on Napoleon’s communicator. It is a comforting thing, and Illya thinks of didus again, didus talking to baba at night while Illya lay upstairs, half asleep. He could never quite hear the words, but the sound was a comfort.

‘Yes, sir, but his memory is patchy on small details. I’d much rather get him to a hospital. The med kit is pretty extensive, but I’m not a doctor.’

Illya drifts closer to wakefulness and tries to say, ‘I’m fine, Napoleon. Don’t worry about me.’ He feels confused though, confused about words and languages.

‘Ah, is that Mr Kuryakin himself that I hear?’ Waverly asks.

‘Illya, go back to sleep,’ Napoleon tells him.

And Illya feels there’s something he must say to didus, something important, and he tries to remember, but perhaps he just goes to sleep, because the next time he blinks Napoleon is lying down in bed next to him, under the covers, and the room is lit only by a single lamp. His feet and hands hurt so much that tears squeeze from his eyes, and he groans before he can catch the sound.

Napoleon’s eyes are open in an instant.

‘Illya, you okay?’

‘Mmm,’ he murmurs. He is warm, properly warm, all through, and although there is pain he feels more comfortable than he has for a long time. ‘Is it night?’

‘Yeah, about – uh – two a.m.. You need more painkiller?’

‘Please,’ Illya says, and Napoleon stirs himself out of bed. He is wearing red pyjamas and rubs his eyes like a sleepy child as he moves to the medical kit and prepares the syringe. There’s a scent of warmth and sweat and Illya wonders if Napoleon is too hot because he’s so focussed on keeping his partner warm.

‘Good news, Illya,’ he says, turning back the quilt and carefully injecting the dose. ‘I spoke to Mr Waverly.’

‘I heard,’ Illya replies.

He watches as Napoleon closes the medical kit and comes back to bed. The mattress descends under his weight, and Illya watches sleepily as Napoleon’s head comes back to the pillow. His hair is ruffled by sleep, and looks coal black in this light.

‘Well, he’s going to send out a ’copter after all. Private charter with an U.N.C.L.E. crew. He said it was because of your injuries but I don’t know that it isn’t just that he wants that microfilm before I’d be able to get it to him otherwise. On the other hand, maybe you babbling half in Russian about geese helped...’

Illya lifts an eyebrow. ‘I was babbling in Russian about geese? Are you sure it wasn’t Ukrainian?’

Napoleon shakes his head. ‘Russian, Ukrainian. Something Slavic. Were you once chased by a mad goose, Illya? Why do you talk about them in your sleep?’

Illya feels the warmth of the feather quilt over the length of his body, and smiles.

‘Did I never tell you, Napoleon? I was found as a baby on the side of the Dnieper by a family of geese, who raised me to adulthood. As a consequence I have very fond memories.’

Napoleon just stares, one eyebrow raised. ‘If I tell that to the doctors in Vienna they’ll never let you leave. Maybe I should cancel that helicopter, huh?’

‘It is March the nineteenth,’ Illya says with a feeling of triumph. It is as if a torch has suddenly been lit in his brain. ‘It is Saturday morning. My name is Illya Nikolayevich Kuryakin, and I am an agent with the U.N.C.L.E..’

‘And you weren’t raised by geese,’ Napoleon says.

Illya smiles. ‘I was not raised by geese, but I knew some once. They kept me warm through many a winter night.’

And Napoleon ruffles his hair and says affectionately, ‘Crazy Russian, raised by geese. It wouldn’t surprise me. I’m still not going to cancel that helicopter though. Not now we’ve got it coming.’

Illya would never tell Napoleon that he loves it when he touches his hair, but he does. It’s like having an older brother or, or... something more. Napoleon’s hand stays there, fingers tangled in Illya’s hair, until he starts to fall asleep again.

((O))

The next time he wakes he can hear the throbbing buzz of a helicopter coming closer and closer, and he wonders what baba would make of such an incredible thing that spiders its way through the air on silver blades. Baba, who would mutter at the thought of men driving automobiles and stared at the occasional aeroplane trail as if it were a blasphemy writ large across the sky.

‘Hey, sleeping beauty. Time to go,’ Napoleon says, shaking him a little, and as Illya stares blearily at him he continues, ‘Don’t you worry about a thing. We’ll just wrap you up like a little Russian papoose and get you on board.’

And Illya glowers, but really he’s quite happy to be looked after as long as Napoleon is there, because Napoleon is his escape route. He is cosy and sleepy enough that the attention of the technicians from the helicopter hardly bother him at all. He feels a brief flurry of cold as he is taken out of the house, and then he’s surrounded by the scent of fuel and metal and rubber and someone is tightening straps across his chest and waist and legs, and he works at not baulking at the feeling of being tied down, because he knows it is necessary. And then he sleeps and wakes, dreams of geese and men in boots, drifts in and out, until he is somewhere very white, a man in white bending over him and checking his eyes, and Napoleon is nowhere to be seen. For a moment anxiety spikes, and looking around he sees a man in a dark suit who gives him a casual salute.

‘Mr Kuryakin, I’m Gunther Strauss, one of our local agents,’ he says in German, flashing his yellow card. ‘Mr Solo has gone for debriefing. He asked me to tell you he’ll be back as soon as he can and he hopes to have arranged the flight back to New York, if the doctor will release you.’

Illya listens very intently to all of that, his head still half in the dream of Germans on his streets, Germans marching, their feet raised like baba’s geese, step after step. He remembers those days so vividly, when he forced himself to start to understand German with an icy ferocity, so that he could speak the language of the enemy and know how to vanquish them.

_ But, Illya, you’re a little boy _ , his mama pleaded.  _ You have to stay out of these things, keep your head low, be a child. _

But papa was gone fighting and Illya was going to _ know _ his enemy, the enemy who would kill his neighbours and try to shoot his father. He had never felt such a fierce hatred as this.

‘Mr Kuryakin. Mr Kuryakin?’

Illya blinks at the Austrian man, who is not a German soldier by any means. Twenty years have passed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m a bit woozy with the painkillers.’

‘Did you hear what I said about Mr Solo?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ he nods. He watches idly as a nurse starts to unwrap the intricate packages of his fingers and toes. His hands still look bloated, terrible, a vivid purple-red, and he hisses at the pain of movement. ‘When will he be back?’

‘As soon as he can, Mr Kuryakin. As I said.’

And Illya sees the U.N.C.L.E. man exchange a glance with the doctor.

‘The painkillers are muddling,’ Illya says irritably.

‘Well, then, I think a little bed rest and monitoring is all you need for the concussion,’ the doctor chimes in. ‘The frostbite – well, that will take a little longer, but I think you’ll keep the digits. Your Mr Solo did all the right things.’

_ Ah, my Mr Solo _ , Illya thinks. He still feels so very sleepy, but, he supposes, the painkillers are seeing to that. It was dawn when he was taken to the helicopter, day when he was stretchered in here, but it feels like the middle of the night. Napoleon must be so tired too, waking up every two or three hours to check on his partner, tired with worry and care.

‘Mr Solo should find a bed when he’s finished debriefing,’ he manages, trying to distract himself from the pain as the nurse and doctor look over his fingers and toes. ‘Mr Strauss?’

And Mr Strauss just smiles, and says, ‘No doubt he should, but I think you will be seeing him again soon.’

Perhaps he would, but when the nurse has finished redressing his appendages he finds himself slipping back into sleep, despite himself. Pain is tiring, and the painkillers take away all of his resistance. The doctor has prescribed various pills and the nurse has pushed them into his mouth and made him swallow, and now there’s no more to do than wait.

((O))

It’s Napoleon’s eyes he sees again when he wakes, Napoleon who arranges his discharge, who lifts him carefully into a wheelchair so he puts no weight on his delicate feet. The painkillers have been lessened, and he feels tight with pain, sick with it, the skin of his face tight over his skull. Napoleon has taken the instructions for his partner to stay off his feet, to not use his hands, as literally as they can be taken. He carries Illya from the wheelchair onto the plane, and when they finally, finally land in JFK he carries Illya down the metal stairs and into another chair. He feels so stupid, so helpless, being pushed like this through the airport with his hands and feet bundled up like an apprentice mummy. When they enter U.N.C.L.E. headquarters red colours his cheeks at all the attention the wheelchair garners.

‘Oh, Mr Kuryakin, whatever happened?’

‘I thought Russians were immune to the cold?’

‘Illya, will you need someone to stay with you until your hands are better?’

The female attention is the worst. Illya hardly has the energy to parry the questions, and Napoleon can tell, answering for him. ‘Mr Kuryakin was a little careless in the Alps. I always thought he was safe to minus forty, but apparently I read the instructions wrong. No, Gloria, I’ll be staying with him until he’s back on his feet.’

Ahh. That is like a glow inside him. They haven’t spoken at all about this, but there it is. Napoleon will stay with him. He won’t be left hobbling about alone or subjected to the horror of a hired nurse. He hopes that his hands will be back in commission soon, and his feet some time after, but he knows that Napoleon will enjoy lording it over him, pushing him around in the wheelchair, cooking his meals and buttoning his shirts.

When Napoleon wheels him in to the masculine sanctum of Waverly’s office he breathes a sigh of relief. The room is filled with the scent of pipe smoke, Isle of Dogs number 22, and for a moment Illya is transported back again in a way he hasn’t been since they started reducing the morphine and he started spending more time awake than asleep.

‘Didus...’ he murmurs.

‘Huh?’ Napoleon asks, leaning over from behind him.

He shakes that memory out of his head. This scent isn’t exactly like didus’ pipe, it’s just it contains the woody scent of that little house, of didus’ tobacco mixed with wood smoke. It is all so long ago, that time. Baba’s smile and her low bosom and strong arms, didus’ pipe and his clever eyes and his slow way of telling a story as he worked with his hands. The Germans marching through Kiev, smoke rising, Illya pressing his arms about his mother’s waist and hiding his face against her softness until he worked up the resolve to fight those men in any way he could. The geese, cackling about the yard, their feathers grown back all white and soft. He hasn’t heard a goose in years.

‘Never mind, Napoleon,’ he says.

And Waverly looks up from the papers on his desk, and smiles. ‘Ah, Mr Kuryakin, Mr Solo. It’s good to have you home.’


End file.
